


You never even said goodbye

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-10-30 07:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17824793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Why was Greg not at the tarmac to say goodbye when Sherlock was leaving post- Magnussen?It always bothered me....so this is my conclusion:1. Because Sherlock met him earlier to say goodbye2. Because no one told him what was happening.So I wrote two stories of the two options.The first is inspired by Saziikins It’s (not) Complicated https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906243It is called There will be New Players and can be read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667446/chapters/41668778This is the second story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has spoilers for TLV so please read on only if you have seen it !

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

As the image flashed all over London, from every screen, Greg also saw it.

_Moriarty?!_ _But….Hadn’t Sherlock said that Moriarty had shot himself in the head??_

_On the roof of St Bart’s??!_

_So what the hell was he doing here on their screens?_

_If Moriarty was back Sherlock was in danger!_

His phone was in his hands and he was dialling Sherlock’s number that instant.

.

.

 When his phone rang Sherlock looked at it, saw the caller ID and gave it to Mycroft.

_He couldn’t deal with this now._

“Gregory, we are on our way to Baker Street.” Mycroft told him. “We will discuss later.”

“Ok” said Greg puzzled. He cut the phone.

_Why did Mycroft answer Sherlock’s phone? Why were they going to Baker Street?! What was there to discuss later?_

_._

_._

So then he called John. John sounded harried.

“Oh Greg, Sherlock isn’t going to Eastern Europe anymore. Thank goodness. I mean six months away…….but he seems to have overdosed before take-off. Drop in at Baker Street when you can.”

Greg sat there wondering if he had been dropped into a vivid dream or he was hallucinating.

_What the hell was going on?!_

He knew Sherlock was always exhorting him to THINK, so he did. He really did. But none of these clues were making ANY sense.

_Sherlock had been about to leave for Eastern Europe._

_He had overdosed._

_He was now going back to Baker Street._

Wait what??!

_Sherlock was supposed to be on his way to Eastern Europe?!_

_For how long? For what??_

_He had overdosed??_

_How? Why??_

_And then why were they not taking him to a hospital?_

_._

_._

He had had no clue of any of this.

He hadn’t expected any information from Mycroft and John of course but not even Sherlock had told him.

_Six months away?? He knew he was going away for six months??_

_And he didn’t even say goodbye?_

_._

_._

Greg sat there reeling at these revelations.

_He didn’t matter enough to even be told goodbye……._

He had never been a man to take things like this to heart but today…..suddenly he felt utterly tired. Weary to the bone. His heart was heavy. Too heavy with unspoken words, unbidden thoughts, terrifying emotions.

He needed a break. He needed to get away.

There were no pending cases, no court appearance expected. Nothing he could do about Moriarty anyway. This was way beyond his security clearance. And when Mycroft had the power and arsenal of the entire government at his disposal what difference would one greying and tired D.I make in the larger scheme of things?

He would have done anything for Sherlock, but it seems Sherlock himself didn’t even think of him.

_He was planning to be away for SIX months._

_He didn’t even say goodbye._

_._

_._

Greg took a snap decision. He called Sally and told her he was taking a month off. An old friend had been inviting him to Sussex for ages and he suddenly decided to take all his pending leave.

Sally just gaped at him like he had lost it. They had all seen the Moriarty video and she couldn’t imagine what had gone wrong.  _He wanted to leave London at a time like this?_

Then she suddenly went pale and asked “Have you had bad news?”

Now it was Greg’s turn to stare at her.  _How did she……no of course not, she meant bad news health- wise._

“No, no nothing like that. I just need a break Sal.”

“Yeah that you do Boss. Please take it. And don’t answer any calls”.

“In fact I will leave my phone with you I think.”

Sally’s guts told her something was very very wrong but she didn’t want to interrogate him further.  _God knows he had had her back forever,_ despite the horrible incident with Sherlock and his suicide. Greg had gone through so much personally too and not for one minute had he let it affect his work.  _If he wanted a break now, the man more than deserved it._

Greg had taken exactly three days of leave in the last few years and discovered that the procedure was in fact ridiculously easy for someone as senior as him. He applied, and it was approved and done by the end of the day. He messaged his friend, bought a pre-paid phone, and packed his bag.

By lunch the next day he was in Sussex.

.

.

If he had received a call, even a text from _someone_ he would have still cancelled his plans, but it was clear that no one needed him and he was free to go.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thus starts the first day of the rest of his life

The next morning he woke up at the crack of dawn as was his habit of so many decades now.

He took in his surroundings in confusion………….and then remembered where he was.

Remembered why he was there.

And let out a deep sigh.

His thoughts turned at once, as they tended to, every morning for the last four years, to Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered the day he had first met him……….and the day he realized that he had feelings for him which had no label he could put on it.

He had gone from exasperation to grudging acceptance, to admiration, then fascination to respect and even fondness.

He had looked out for him and kept him alive through the peak of his drug addiction (and thanks to Mycroft for his bloody surveillance!). Then he had mentored him through his early detective days ( of course there was no way Sherlock would admit to being mentored! Bloody posh genius). Later he had resorted to calling him in for so many difficult cases and then he had been forced into arresting him and losing him.

The instant he heard Sally tell him Sherlock had jumped was the instant it became clear to him in a blinding flash that his own life had suddenly lost all meaning.

_What name could he give all this?_

He knew that Sherlock didn’t do feelings. So there was no expectation of anything reciprocated by him. Of course not. He was only happy in the knowledge that no matter what happened , at least he was a part of Sherlock’s inner circle. For whatever that was worth.

Even if it was only because of the Work.

He shrugged. For a man who claimed to be married to his work, this was probably as good as it got.

He could live with that.

Once John Watson moved in to Baker Street, he had seen the sparks fly. They didn’t seem to be a couple but Sherlock was clearly very fond of him. He had died for John. Then he had come back and dived straight into his wedding preparations.

He had called Greg for that bloody Best Man speech! Of course Greg had over-reacted!! What did he expect?? The idiot. Sending him messages saying 'Help'.

Only Greg knew with what difficulty he had let go of Sherlock after he hugged him in that damn car park.

So what else could he have done on seeing the text message asking for help??! Charge in with all guns blazing of course!! No way was he going to lose Sherlock again. Not on his watch….

.

.

But now he was losing Sherlock anyway………..because for some bizarre reason Sherlock had been about to leave for a one way trip to Eastern Europe.

And he hadn’t even bothered to let Greg know.

_Why would he?_ _He doesn’t even remember my first name_ Greg thought, with a pit in his stomach.

He had deluded himself for so long. The truth was he didn’t mean anything special to Sherlock. He was just the means to an end. A middle man. A via media.

Not a person. Not a friend. Nothing requiring emotional investment or reciprocity to any degree..

They were not in a relationship for heaven’s sake.

He wanted to hit his own head against a wall to knock some sense into it.

He truly was an idiot.

Sherlock had never led him on. He had always been professional. Always distant. Always direct. Always ……the same git he was used to. Quick-fire genius, fast on his feet, mercurial temper, rapid action deductions solving crimes.

.

.

Greg looked around at his friend’s guest bedroom. _Well done Greg,_ he said to himself. _First sign of trouble and you run away. Take the easy way out. Be in denial._ Slow clap.

_How long will you hide away Gregory Lestrade_? He asked himself. _Can’t do forever, can you?_

Could he apply for a transfer? He wondered.

_What else was left for him in London anyway?_

His wife had left him. The old flat was gone. He didn’t even have a pet.

He could just move out of the city tomorrow and no one would miss him.

The thought that he would never see Sherlock again made him feel nauseous. But at least Sherlock was alive and in London. Not overdosed or dead or in Eastern Europe for ever.

He was alive. He was in London.

That made all the difference to Greg’s world. _So what if he never had any feelings for Greg?_

After all, it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

There was a sudden pin drop silence inside the cacophony in his head.

Love.

_That is what it was, wasn’t it?_

Unconditional. Infinite. Forever.

His brain rolled its tongue around the word. Love.

It sat heavily inside him in a comforting way. It settled into him and filled up spaces that he didn’t even know he was carrying around empty.

It was so light that it lifted him up. He felt like he was floating.

_Really?_ He asked himself. _You couldn’t have found anyone more difficult to fall in love with?_

A genius… way out of your league. Posh, with an accent like cut glass. Beautiful. Probably rich.

With the British Government for a big brother.

Ten years younger that you. Married to his work.

Always going on about emotions being a chemical defect.

_Yeah. He really couldn’t have found anyone more impossible._

With that cheerful thought, he pulled himself out of bed and got started with getting ready to face the beginning of the rest of his life.

With a huge Sherlock –shaped hole ripped into it.

Again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds out what it feels like when someone leaves without saying goodbye

Sherlock came by the Yard seven days later, looking even more gaunt and paler than usual, whirling in with his attitude and impatience as Sally stood and watched, hands crossed and lips pursed in disapproval.

Sherlock went into Greg’s cabin and swirled out almost at once.

“Where is Lestrade? He hasn’t answered any of my texts.”

Sally shrugged. “I saw them. Didn’t see any point in replying.”

“ _You?_ Why would you see his phone?”

“Cos he left it with me when he went on leave.”

_ “What?! “ _

Sherlock’s face would have made her laugh if she didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that her boss’s leave had something to do with this man.

“Is he unwell? Is he…? Where is he?” Sherlock was not sure what to ask.

She had never seen him look so baffled and lost before.

“I don’t know.” said Sally, truthfully. She hadn’t asked him so she wouldn’t be tempted to contact him. “He said an old friend had been inviting him for ages and he needed a break.”

She hesitated but then decided to give him everything. “Actually what he said was he needed to get away.”

Sherlock swayed on his feet.

Sally felt a bit sorry for him. Somewhere under all that bluster and deduction and swagger, looked like the Freak had feelings for her Boss……

So she made him sit and gave him a cup of coffee.

John came in to see the sight of Sally hovering over Sherlock and was too shocked to even ask what had happened.

Sherlock finished his coffee and swept out with a dark expression on his face. John followed him silently. He knew better than to interrupt this deadly mood.

When they reached home Sherlock stood and looked out of the window in silent contemplation for a while. Then he played the most heart rending tunes on the violin till John felt wretched through and through.

Finally John called Mycroft, the ultimate interpreter of all things Sherlock and explained the sequence of events.

In an instant it was clear to Mycroft. "Thank you Dr. Watson. I will come by Baker Street later this evening.”

True to his word he dropped in at 6.30 pm and sat in John’s chair. Sherlock ignored him completely and lay on the sofa with his back to everyone. Mycroft drank a cup of tea offered by John and waited, patiently. After half an hour Sherlock sat upright and glared at Mycroft.

Mycroft gave him a disapproving look. _You didn’t tell him._

Sherlock looked away. _I couldn’t._

Mycroft tapped his umbrella. _He is hurt._

 _So am I._ Sherlock tilted his chin up.   _He left without even telling me….he never even said goodbye…..oh. Oh. That was why…._

John was staring at this wordless argument, his head turning back and forth like he was watching a silent tennis match. “Umm what is going on?” he finally asked.

Both of them ignored him.

“Mycroft!!” Sherlock said finally. His tone was almost begging.

John was astonished. He had never heard that pleading tone in Sherlock’s voice before.

Mycroft nodded, a soft look on his face. “Yes Sherlock. I will.”

“What?? Who? Where?” John asked again, utterly lost and increasingly frustrated.

“D. I Lestrade.” said Mycroft, enigmatically and left.

.

.

By 8 pm they knew where he was.

Mycroft called. “Sherlock don’t go alone. Listen to me for once. Respect his wishes. He wants to get away. Now we know he is safe and healthy. So, please let him have some peace. Let me figure out a way to be free this Saturday and I will take you there.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Mycroft’s call, Sherlock didn’t know what to do.  
> It was like a seismic shift in the ground beneath his feet. The one constant of his adult life. Gregory Lestrade. Yes of course he knew his first name. He only called him all those names because his real name was something too intimate to call him in public with. It was a name he whispered only to himself.

After Mycroft’s call, Sherlock didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t want to sleep. He _couldn’t_ sleep.

He couldn’t play the violin. He didn’t _want_ to play.

He had too much restless energy and no outlet. What was worse was that he could deduce that Lestrade had left to get away from him and he had _no idea_ if he would ever come back. It was like a seismic shift in the ground beneath his feet.

The one constant of his adult life. Gregory Lestrade. Yes _of course_ he knew his first name. He only called him all those names because his real name was something too intimate to call him in public with.

It was a name he whispered only to himself.

It was the name he addressed his one- sided conversations to during the two years that he had been away. It was the name he remembered when he was cold, hungry, miserable, in pain, lost, defeated. Because that name brought him warmth. It gave him courage. It reminded him that no matter how bad things got, the man with that name would always be there for him. He would find him and haul him to a safe place and then look after him.

Unconditionally.

Despite being the one who had seen him in the worst possible conditions, repeatedly, he was the one person who had never treated him like he was broken. He had never tried to ‘fix’ him.

On the days when he didn’t want to even acknowledge Mycroft’s existence, when the sun broke up into pieces of glass inside his brain and he needed things to be dark and quiet, on the days when he wanted to crawl out of his skin and never be touched by anything again, on the days when everyone seemed to breathe too loudly and his brain was assaulted by waves of painful echoes……..on all those days the only one he would allow near him, allow to touch him, hold him, whisper to him, feed him, would be Lestrade.

On the days when he would wake up utterly disoriented and start to panic, the sight of the grey head next to him, nodding off on the sofa, or sitting on a hospital chair, would make him calm down.

Lestrade was here. He was safe. 

“Gregory.” He whispered to himself just now. Just saying the name calmed him down.

 _Surely Gregory wouldn’t leave him forever?_ Just the thought made his blood run cold. During those years away, he would imagine Gregory talking to him, in his calm, solid, kind way.

“Don’t worry Sherlock, it is all going to be fine. I will be waiting for you to come back.”

“Take it easy Sherlock. Don’t put yourself in danger.  We need you!”

“You are a good man Sherlock. And a brave one. All will be well.”

He realized suddenly how much Gregory must have suffered during those years after his Fall--—suspicion had fallen on him of collusion, then there was the humiliation of being demoted, the difficulties with his marriage, the loss of his position…………and despite all that his reaction on seeing Sherlock had been a bear hug.

Sherlock had been too stunned to react when he hugged him, never expecting this after the punch John had thrown. This act of loving kindness had staggered him. As he had walked away later only he knew the tremendous will power that it had taken to continue moving away when all he wanted to do was hug him back and be comforted by him.

Of course he had always known that Gregory cared.

He had seen it in the _rage_ in his eyes when women were killed by their intimate partners. He knew he was _gutted_ when children were brutalized. He felt _miserable_ when he saw homeless people, unclaimed bodies. He _burned_ inside when he saw guilty people walk away as they sometimes do from the courts and prisons. He _hated_ seeing young men and women throw away their lives on drugs.

Sherlock knew that.

Greg had helped him get clean and managed to be a buffer between him and Mycroft. He had helped him get started on his life as a Consulting Detective and had quietly supported him every step of the way. Greg had tweaked rules, suffered rudeness from colleagues, fended questions from seniors, even tolerated being insulted by Sherlock but he had never once been anything but supportive. He had never made Sherlock feel any burden of obligation.

As he thought of Greg suddenly so many images and scenes flashed into his Mind Palace. There were far more memories of him than there were even of John. Greg had been there for him for simply _years and years_ , always in the background, reliable, patient, encouraging, supportive. He had made no demands on him except to stay clean and to help with solving crimes.

In fact there was hardly any time zone in his Mind Palace after he moved to London which didn’t have Greg standing stoically in the background of his life story, his hair turning grey over the last decade but the face remaining the same. Often grim and worried but very rarely smiling and happy. Sherlock knew that he was the cause of both these expressions. Greg was always so proud of him when he solved the most difficult cases. Always willing to give him the credit.

But on the whole Greg always looked so worried for him. Concerned and caring. He had suffered through his own personal problems stoically and alone. But he had been there for Sherlock every step of the way despite whatever else was going on.

He had turned up at Dartmoor and even now the memory Sherlock has is of overwhelming relief at the sight of the grey haired cop standing at the bar drinking beer.

_Greg was here! Things would be fine now._

It had given him the confidence to continue his investigations and face the hound in the hollow.

The day he first met John, he had told him he was married to his work. Not that he believed in the sanctity or permanence of marriage after all these years of solving murders committed by apparently loving spouses. But it was an easy way to explain to the goldfish what his relationship with his work was.

Now it was occurring to him that in his Mind Palace there was no separation between the Work and Gregory.

His solid, reliable, calming presence was in the background of every case Sherlock had handled.

But Sherlock always maintained his distance once the cases were done because…….. _well surely Gregory was happy to be rid of this intrusion into his private life?_ His wife…now ex-wife, had barely tolerated Sherlock’s presence during his drug fuelled days.

Gregory was well liked, well respected, a truly good man, with a great career. Handsome, intelligent, generous………. _why would he want to be saddled with a sociopath, ex-junkie freak?!_

Since the time of his divorce Sherlock hadn’t noticed him with anyone significant. Now that he thought about it, he didn’t think he had seen Gregory with anyone at all.

But this ‘friend’ he had gone to be with?!! _What if it was someone he had feelings for?!_

Sherlock sat up with a start. He needed to find Gregory right away and tell him that he loved him.

Love.

_That is what is was……… wasn’t it?_

The fact that London felt empty because Gregory wasn’t there.

The fact that the future seemed dark and unhappy.

The fact that every time he closed his eyes he could see Gregory……looking sad and leaving.

The fact that just wondering who his ‘friend’ was made him all hot and cold and very, very scared……

All the evidence pointed in the same direction.   _But did Gregory also feel the same way?_

 _Ugh_ …he texted Mycroft. (Can’t we go now? SH)

{It is past midnight Sherlock. Please get some sleep. Let me finish with the Cabinet Meeting tomorrow and I promise you we will go on Saturday, early in the morning. Mycroft Holmes}

.

.

Sherlock stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door shut with such force that both John and Mrs. Hudson and maybe even Mrs. Turner felt the vibrations.

He threw his phone on the bed and sat on one side, looking into his Mind Palace.

When he had returned from the Fall, he had not exactly been welcomed with open arms by John Watson. But Greg? That hug had pulled him away from the edge of another abyss. After the disastrous meeting with John, he had in fact been wondering if he should have stayed ‘dead’ but Greg had answered that question by a simple hug. He had not scolded nor had he asked for an explanation.

No recriminations. No judgement.

_Surely….he must have feelings for him??_

Sherlock had then been swept away in the path of John and Mary’s wedding preparations and he could see in his Mind Palace the scene with Greg breathless from having almost run all the way to Baker Street, the helicopter hovering outside for maximum back up. His incredulous expression at realizing that Sherlock wanted help with the Best Man speech.

_Would he have done that for anyone else??_

Just then Mycroft turned up inside his Mind Palace, tapping his umbrella. ‘He will never say anything to you because he thinks you are unlikely to have any feelings for him. How many times have you said in his presence --Emotions are a Chemical Defect?!! But you can surely deduce from his behaviour how much he cares for you! Even I cannot promise you if that is love…but unless you ask how will you ever know?”

Sherlock fell asleep still clueing for looks and had the strangest dream that night.

He had left his home, his safe place, for a fairground.

It was full of lights and sounds and a buzz of energy. He had whirled around on the merry- go- round and gone up and down the slides and swings. He went high, very high. Then he went low, very low.

There were jugglers and fire eaters and lots of clowns everywhere. Too many clowns actually…..They annoyed him and if he was honest, (as you could be in dreams), they scared him a little. But a very kind bearded lady who looked a lot like Molly took him by the arm and kept him safe inside her tent when one clown came too close to his face and he was almost paralysed with fear.

After a while when his heat rate went back to normal he turned to talk to her but she had disappeared. He kept calling out to John but no one answered him.

He went out of her tent and saw that many people were wearing masks and he couldn’t see their real faces. But there was a lady near the circus tent who looked a lot like Mrs Hudson. She was dressed like a belly dancer and kept saying “Balloons and balloons my dearie.”

He saw a gypsy who was reading palms and telling the future. She had an angry expression and reminded him of someone…….was it Sally? It was too dark to see. He didn’t care for her mutterings at all and turned in the opposite direction.

Just then someone came floating down from the sky, using an umbrella as a parachute, and gave him a very stern look. He ran away from her. Or was it a _him_? He couldn’t be sure. But he ran away because he didn’t want to be scolded and told to behave.

He had run and run and raced from tent to tent and from ride to ride and it had all been colourful and exciting and thrilling and captivating and had left him breathless and delighted and the violin score playing in the background had reached a crescendo.

As he stood there near the gate, catching his breath, looking back at the chaos and bedlam he suddenly had a feeling, deep inside, that maybe it was now time to go back home.

To his safe place.

To the quiet slow smiles that made him feel warm all the way to his toes. To the powerful steady hands that always kept him from falling. To soft brown eyes that showed so much care.

He needed to tell those eyes that while he enjoyed all the circus and the drama, he didn’t need anyone else to make him happy and to share his quiet place.

He needed to look into those eyes and say “I love you. Do you love me too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Of course Sherlock’s dreams include Mary Poppins. She is dark and mysterious and more frightening than comforting actually (and there is that ‘teeny tiny’ resemblance to Mycroft)! Balloons and balloons my dearie! Also a touch of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ by Maurice Sendak. All my absolute favourites!
> 
> 2\. The dream sequence is adapted from my earlier fic 'Anyone But you'. It is also a Sherstrade and set after Molly gives Sherlock that letter from John, after Mary's death. https://archiveofourown.org/works/16200623/chapters/37862237


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally they get into the car and go to find Gregory.

Finally Saturday morning dawned. Sherlock has been awake almost all night.

At 6 am sharp a black car drew up in front of the building. Sherlock saw it from the window and was galloping down the stairs a minute later. He flung open the front door and rushed out just as Mycroft was about to step out of the car.

He practically rushed Mycroft back in and said “Hurry!”

“Steady on Sherlock!” Mycroft said. “It is only a three hour ride.”

“Maybe!’ Sherlock almost snarled at him. “But it has already been 9 days since he left.”

Mycroft deduced the undercurrent of worry. Of course he did. And for once he had no idea how to reassure Sherlock. He had seen the files on the ‘friend’ and he would have been worried too…..

So he handed him a cup of black coffee instead and settled in for the long ride.

.

.

When they reached Sussex, Sherlock waited in the car, restless and impatient.

Mycroft went in through the rather well maintained garden of the rambling cottage and knocked on the front door.

It took a second knock before the owner of the house opened the door. He had seen his photographs. The grandson of the famous William Robinson Clarke, Britain’s first African-Caribbean pilot. Tall, dark and even more handsome than his photos suggested.

He gave him a slow pleasant smile, (very reminiscent of Greg’s own Mycroft thought).

“Sorry! I was busy in the garden out back and didn’t hear you knock! Have you been out here long? How can I help you?”

“I am here to meet D.I Lestrade.” Mycroft said, attempting an equally pleasant smile.

“Oh….but there is no one by that name here,” said the man, trying to look serious but his eyes were twinkling.

 Mycroft blinked. “Ah yes of course, he is not here officially. My apologies. Is Gregory home?”

“Now that is someone I can help you with!” And the man chuckled and Mycroft was sure he had never heard a more deeply satisfying sound in his entire life. The man was gesturing to welcome him inside. “Do come in. Have a seat. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t say.” replied Mycroft blandly. “Would you mind not announcing me? He isn’t exactly expecting me….”

“No, I am sure he isn’t,” said the man, tapping his finger against the side of his head ( Beautiful fingers….Mycroft thought…..how could any man have such large and elegant and beautiful fingers?!)   “He is probably expecting someone with curly black hair and a scowl of thunder……. Hoping more than expecting perhaps….”

“Oh.” said Mycroft mildly. “Why would that be?”

“I think that’s the man he has left London because of. He keeps googling news of him and looks at a certain picture on his phone when he thinks I am not paying attention.” This time the chuckle was followed by a belly laugh and for a moment Mycroft forgot why he had come in here.  

Just then some sounds were heard from the inner room and he called out. “Gregory are you decent? We have a guest.”

“I am always decent Leo.” came another matching warm chuckle.

Greg came into the living room in a T- shirt and shorts, wiping his hair dry with a towel, smiling.

He saw Mycroft and froze. “Is Sherlock ok?” He asked instantly.

Mycroft’s expression remained passive but _honestly_ these two _IDIOTS_.

He wanted to knock their heads together. He has a brief glimpse of his daily negotiations at work and how it would go if he could just physically knock sense into people’s head, diplomats and politicians both. He sighed internally.

“He is fine Gregory. Are you well?”

“Yes yes I am fine.”

“We wondered if it was a family emergency that you left for.” Mycroft said politely. “ In such a hurry.’

_No you didn’t you bastard !_ Greg thought. _You knew exactly why I left and where to find me!_

“Well I just really wanted to get away from London.” Greg said, in an equally bland tone.

The sub text ‘ _and from Sherlock’_ is loud and clear to Mycroft.

Meanwhile Leo disappeared into the kitchen and come out with a tray of tea things. He poured out a cup for Mycroft, who thanked him and took a sip.

“Oh, this is really good tea!”  

“Yes it’s my grandma’s special bush tea! And do try the honey instead of sugar.” Leo said.

“Stands the clock at ten to three….” Mycroft murmured, almost to himself.

“And is there honey still for tea?” Leo asked him, with a happy chuckle.

Mycroft looked at him and deduced. “You have been keeping bees for ten years now.”

“Indeed I have! How did you know that?!” Leo asked, an expression of happy wonder on his face.

Greg almost rolled his eyes. He had gotten so used to the almost magical deductions of the Holmes brothers he had forgotten how terrifying and beguiling it had seemed in the beginning.

Mycroft smiled, pleased with himself. Then he turned to Greg. “Can I bother you for a cup of tea for my driver also?”

“Yes of course!” said Greg. “Can you ask him to come in right away? He can have a cup while it’s hot. There is also some cake.”

“Thank you.” said Mycroft politely. “I will text him.”

Hardly a few seconds later the bell rang.

“I will get it.” Greg said and went to open the door.

Sherlock stood outside.

Greg’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth went dry. Sherlock looked paler than usual and his cheeks were hollow. But what was the worst was the burning eyes.

Greg stared at this vision floating hair and flashing eyes, almost Byronic and drank in the sight of him. He had never really expected to see him again, at least not so soon.

“Come in Sherlock.” he said finally.

Sherlock came in and stood in the living room, suddenly making it seem small and crowded. His burning gaze taking in everything.

Leo came forward and stood next to Greg and the instant change in Sherlock’s demeanour from deduction to hostility was apparent to everyone.  

Mycroft murmured smoothly. “It would be lovely to see the bee hives while the sun is still in the sky.”

“Yes of course.” said Leo.” It would be my pleasure to show you” and they both stepped out.

Greg could hear the murmurs of their conversation as they walked towards the passage.

“I am sorry for not having introduced myself earlier. I am Mycroft Holmes.”

There was that deep chuckle again. “Yes. I figured as much. It isn’t everyday that the most dangerous man in Britain turns up at my doorstep.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at that. Leo indicated the house with his thumb over his shoulder.

“Him back there hasn’t shut up about you and someone called John and his work at the Yard. The only one he has not spoken about is the one whose photo he keeps looking at and who just turned up there like a drama queen.”

As Mycroft followed him into the large garden at the back of the house, he felt as though something was happening inside of him.

_Was it a feeling? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.rafmuseum.org.uk/blog/william.robinson.clarke/
> 
> http://www.caribbeanaircrew-ww2.com/


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has things he needs to say to Greg. Greg isn't sure what to do with those things being said...
> 
> Mycroft finds himself speechless, for a change!

A heavy silence fell in the living room as Mycroft and Leo walked out of earshot, the crunching of boots on the gravel faded away and the muffled ticking of a clock could be heard from one of the inner rooms.

Time………Greg thought distractedly. How desperate humans are to keep track of time. Constantly. When all time does is slip through one’s fingers, relentlessly. Time didn’t care. It was humans who created the past and the future. Memories and dreams.

He could remember like it was yesterday when he first laid eyes on the human tornado that was going to sweep through his life. Picking him up and tossing him around and turning everything upside down.

Now he was standing here in front of him and all those years that had passed in the interim…..they might as well not have existed for all that they mattered.

His heart had been captured in that very first instant even if Gregory hadn’t recognized it for what it was. He wasn’t his first junkie. It wasn’t his first homeless drifter. But something had kept him connected. Something had kept him going back. Keeping him alive. Caring for him. Missing him. Mourning him. Hugging him when he came back---- his own personal miracle!

Continuing to be content with what they had because …well, he was alive! _Wasn’t that already too much?!_ And Greg was too sensible to imagine that they could have anything more.

.

.

So, as Sherlock stood in front of Greg, looking into his eyes, Greg looked back at him, with the same calm and gentle expression as always. _What can I do for you?_

Sherlock took a deep breath and said with a dramatic flourish. “The mission was not expected to end well….Greg. I may not have made it back. I couldn’t tell you that.” He paused and continued hesitantly. “And if I came to say goodbye…..I couldn’t…..I couldn’t say goodbye to you.”

Then he stood there unable to say anymore. He looked at Greg as though willing him to read his mind. Greg stood there silently. Not sure how to process all this information.

_Of all the things he had expected to hear this was not one of them._

“You couldn’t say goodbye to me? Knowing that you may not have made it back??” He finally said, softly. “Did you think of what it would do to me to lose you again Sherlock?” He paused. “All those years of looking out for you, all those nights holding your hand and taking care of you…….on days when even Mycroft couldn’t ….or when you wouldn’t let him…….and you didn’t trust me to move heaven and earth to make sure you would be safe? I am sorry Sherlock. I am sorry that you didn’t trust me enough.”

At this speech all the bravado was gone and Sherlock broke down. “Please forgive me Greg. I was wrong. I thought I was saving you the pain…but I …I was being selfish. I was saving _myself_ the pain. I could not say goodbye to you Greg.” He paused. He cleared his throat.   “The work, London, everything was grey when you left. You were the only one who has never ever been angry with me Greg. Despite everything that I have done. You have never treated me like I was broken. You have only been supportive and you have always been my refuge. I …….I used to talk to you while I was gone. You would tell me to stay brave. Be sensible. You had faith in me.”

Finally he almost whispered. “I think….I love you Greg.”

Greg just stared at him, having absolutely never expected to hear these words from this man in his lifetime.

One part of his brain was urging him to go and _hug the man for heaven’s sake!! Kiss him! Take him to your bedroom_ …..

One part was in shock. _Could this be true?? Could this be one of his weird manipulative experiments?_ He had seen Sherlock cry at will often enough if he thought it would get him information from a witness.

When the silence went on for too long, Sherlock spoke again. “Please come back Greg. Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t know what to say Sherlock”. Greg said, a feeling of deep confusion and weariness coming over him suddenly. Sherlock has always had this paradoxical effect on him. Exhilaration and exhaustion. “This is too sudden and ……and too much to take in.”

Sherlock looked at him so utterly lost. “I can’t …I don’t want to go back without you.”

Greg sighed. _Why did he imagine this would be an easy negotiation??_ This was Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes. “Why don’t you stay here for a couple of days instead?”

“But I didn’t bring any clothes with me!” Sherlock looks around wildly.

Greg was exasperated. “Yes of course. You just expected that all you had to do was turn up and snap your fingers and I would follow you back! That isn’t going to happen Sherlock. Not anymore. I am not sure of what you said to me just now. It’s not just words is it Sunshine? You missed me and want me back so that your routine isn’t disturbed?” He sighed at the expression of distress on Sherlock’s face. “We will need to work on this.”

Un-noticed by them Mycroft and Leo had been standing in the doorway and had head the last few exchanges. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“If it isn’t too much trouble Inspector, I had some essentials packed for him in anticipation of such a possibility. And since you have applied for a month’s leave, perhaps Sherlock would be willing to stay here till the next weekend. It might do you both some good to be away from London, the cases……….” He trailed off, looking at Leo. “Forgive me for suggesting this imposition on your generous hospitality, Leonardo.”

Greg raised one eyebrow meaningfully. ‘Leonardo’. _Well, well, well._

“Oh don’t worry about it!” Leo said with a chuckle, waving his hand. “In fact Mycroft, you are also welcome to stay if you can spare the time.”

The look on Mycroft’s face was priceless.

If Sherlock hadn’t been so distressed he would have certainly made some comment. Disparaging of course. But as it was, Mycroft’s expression of longing was like a booklover being given the keys to the national library. He was unable to process what he had been offered, while simultaneously figuring out how badly he really wanted it and also recognizing that he couldn’t really have it…..after all …the country wasn’t going to run itself was it….and he hardly knew the man!

His brain was offering him all the possible reasons to refuse this ……when all those walls came tumbling down as Leo winked at him.

_WINKED at him??! At him?? At Mycroft Holmes? The Ice Man?_

He didn’t think anyone had EVER winked at him his entire life.

“I might just make my famous honey lemon roast chicken for lunch tomorrow if you stayed.” Leo said with half a smile.

_Was the man FLIRTING with him?_

Mycroft felt as though he was in the heart of a twister. Everything he knew about himself was flying around him in majestic sweeping circles and when the dust settled, he knew…he just knew….that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

“Looks like you should throw in a sing-along session with you on the piano Leo.” Greg said. He looked at Mycroft. “Trust me, you don’t want to miss that. It was unlikely to be on his files, so you wouldn’t know it, but he sings jazz like a dream!”

.

.

Thus it came to pass that text messages were sent off about the change in plans. The message was received with a happy smile by Dr John Watson and with a very surprised expression by Anthea.

Of course she had already looked into the security clearance of the host and had a tracker on the car. But she couldn’t imagine what would induce her boss to spend the night in the middle of nowhere in a cottage with…….and as she was pulling up her files she clicked on the photo of the host….Woah!!! Okaaay.

Suddenly her boss’s decision seemed to make a LOT of sense. _Who in their right minds would return to London in a hurry when you could spend a weekend with someone who looked like this??_

She went through the files again rapidly. Distinguished family, outstanding career, credited with inventing the safety harness used in the Royal Air Force, winner of the Sussex county sci-fi quiz five years in a row, champion rower at national level and …no WAY ! He had written a primer on Zen Buddhism and the Urban Warrior.

Anthea sat back and took a deep breath. If she had been tasked with writing up a profile for the ideal match for Mycroft Holmes, she could not have imagined anyone more perfect!

Leonardo Percival Clarke.

Bingo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say ?? Mycroft always turns up and takes over my stories somehow....not complaining though :*
> 
> And here is what I imagine Leo to look like...yeah, enjoy :)
> 
> https://www.lipstiq.com/2018/170786/idris-elba-is-peoples-sexiest-man-alive-the-internet-reacts-in-the-best-way/


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the (al) chemistry is right, even a weekend is enough to turn a stone to gold !

In later years Mycroft would hold the memory of that weekend like stardust captured in a drop of amber.

The entire weekend seemed to be suffused with a warm golden glow, like a drop of amber languidly making its way down the tree trunk, stardust swirling in from eternity to be trapped in it, till time had no meaning and dreams were made real.

When the last meal of the weekend had been eaten (polished off- to be precise) and the last song had been sung, Mycroft felt as though he had been offered all the treasures of Arabia in the form of that deep voice which had sung mellifluously of lost love and precious lives and that had catalysed his brain into thinking thoughts he had never believed himself capable of.

It was alchemy. It was a magical evening.

Greg and Sherlock had not been immune either.

Greg had shared some of his favourite crime scene stories with Leo, over dinner, as everyone had second and even third helpings, and much wine was drunk. Mycroft already knew all these stories of course and he could focus his attention on watching Sherlock and Leo as they were listening.

Once in a while Sherlock would interrupt with a snort or an eye roll but mostly he seemed to be glowing because Greg was praising him and calling him remarkable and a genius and even when he did complain about his behaviour, he was doing it with such fondness that it was not possible to miss the genuine affection he had for his Consulting Detective.

When dinner was finally declared to be over and everyone started to get up, reluctantly and with groans, Greg had said he would do the dishes. Sherlock had gotten up from his chair and said he would help.

It was almost comical the way Mycroft and Lestrade’s jaws dropped.

_Sherlock was going to help with the dishes??!_ They looked at each other and had to try very, very hard not to laugh.

_Did Sherlock even know how dishes were washed?_

That warm feeling that had invaded Greg’s chest since the moment Sherlock had stormed into the house on Saturday morning was now threatening to overwhelm him.

_Sherlock was willing to wash dishes so he could be with him?_

Ah, he needed to re-consider his doubts about the declaration of love now, didn’t he?

“Sure Sunshine.” he said easily as he went into the kitchen. “Come along then, spit-spot!”

“And I might have a special treat for you Mycroft.” Leo said with a chuckle. “Wait outside on the patio.”

“Oh Leo, you are too kind.” Mycroft protested. This entire weekend has been a treat! I don’t remember the last time that I was so……”

_Happy??_ He had been about to say ‘happy’! Not relaxed, not comfortable. Happy. He was happy.

Mycroft stood there, surprised at himself. He had even forgotten that he was capable of this feeling, let alone the actual feeling of it.

Happiness.

He could see Greg and Sherlock in the kitchen.

_Were they throwing soap suds at each other?!! And did Greg just smack him with a dishtowel?!_

_Oh well….they had been dancing around physical contact all weekend. It was obvious what the night was going to hold for them._

Mycroft stepped out in to the patio to find Leo there with a box in his hand.

_Cigars! Jamaican cigars!_

Leo had snipped one of the cigars and now he handed it to Mycroft and lit it for him.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and felt as though he must have died and reached heaven. The silky smooth sweet spice flavour and the tantalizing aroma…mmmm.

He felt rather than heard Leo’s chuckle as he sat next to him on the wrought iron bench, smoking his own cigar.

They chatted about the Jamaican economy, the evils of colonialism, globalization and eventually drifted to talking about the stars and astronomy and somehow ended up with a discussion on robots and the singularity.

Mycroft could not remember a single other occasion when he had had such a satisfying conversation in his entire life!

“Perfect!” he found himself saying as he drained the glass of Cognac that Leo had filled for him half an hour ago.

“Yes. Practically perfect in every way.” Leo replied. “I think so too.”

That gleam in his eyes couldn’t possibly be misunderstood and Mycroft found himself leaning forward as did Leo…….And Sherlock spoke in a voice dripping with revulsion.

“Oh for god’s sake Mycroft!! Get a room!”

“Hey!” Greg turned up right behind him and chastised him. “What did we just discuss about where you were going to sleep tonight?!”

Sherlock had the grace to blush as Greg waggled his eyebrows at him.

Leo laughed and Mycroft chuckled and Sherlock turned around and stalked off with as much dignity as he could possibly muster under the circumstances.

Greg stood there for a second, torn between following Sherlock and needing to say something.

“Thank you Mycroft.” He said finally.

Mycroft nodded and raised his empty glass in salute. “Go find your sulking Drama Queen! I shall be leaving early tomorrow. It is Monday and work beckons.”

“But you will be back on Friday won’t you?” Leo said with a confident smile.

“To pick up Sherlock, yes of course.” Mycroft confirmed, a naughty smile on his face.

And then he winked at Leo.

Mycroft Holmes-- the British Government, the Ice Man, code name Antarctica-- gave a lush wink.

Greg groaned. “Oh for god’s sake you two!! You really do need to get a room. Bye!”

And he practically scampered down the passageway to find Sherlock.

His Sherlock.


End file.
